


No easy love could ever make me feel the same

by Drakojana



Category: Video Blogging RPF, jacksepticeye - Fandom, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, Fantasy AU, Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, M/M, Magic, Temporary Character Death, Unrequited Love, antimark - Freeform, knight!Anti, mage!Mark, manti - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-18 15:46:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13684758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drakojana/pseuds/Drakojana
Summary: "I didn't ask to be saved.""You didn't have to."





	1. I don't even try looking for something new

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I know I have other stuff to write. But I was feeling this AU so hard, I just had to!  
> Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! :D

Mark has always preferred to travel alone. No matter the quest he's taken or the promise he's made, he rarely takes the offer of companionship. Although he's perfectly aware that his robes are little defense in case of an ambush or close combat, the raven-haired man trusts his own spell-casting skills enough to embark on numerous journeys all by himself.

He's a talented mage, he's been told so ever since his abilities came to light. As a child, he was a quick learner, eager to try out new spells and chants. Not all attempts at the more complex magic have been successful at first, yet it didn't take Mark long to graduate from the Academy of Mages with an exceptional score. No matter where he goes, however, he can't quite find a place for himself. His skills have many uses, that's true, and he enjoys helping out the common folk with everyday problems. Yet his heart always feels a bit unwelcome, a bit lonely. Still, the raven-haired man refuses to seek company.

And so Mark looks up at the evening sky during one of his countless travels, feeling the warm rays of sunshine on his cheeks. The sky is painted red, the sun slowly setting over the horizon. The clouds sluggishly make their way through the crimson firmament, their snow-white fluffiness tainted with a pink shade. The mage enjoys the quiet moments when he can just take in the sights that Mother Nature has to offer. The vast lands of crops and forests spread in front of him, mountains towering in the distance with their tops smoothened over time. Every living creature finds their way back home, preparing for the night.

Mark thinks about setting up a camp. He's still got three days of the journey before he'll arrive at the village he's been summoned to. The raven-haired man finds a spot at the base of one of the hills, hoping it will shield him from the evening breeze at least a bit. He throws the backpack off his shoulders and takes out a neatly rolled up sleeping bag as well as a chunk of wood he's found earlier. One wave of his staff and a small fireball hits the wood, sparks flying upon the impact. Mark places a few stones around the tiny bonfire he's created. The spell should keep it burning for the next few hours, giving him enough warmth to get through the night.

The mage sighs as he rummages through his backpack. He's slowly running out of the dried fruit and smoked fish he's taken with himself as edibles. At least the flask of water is full, he refills it whenever he can. Although food shouldn't be a problem for somebody as skilled as Mark, he shudders at the thought of having to hunt. Using primal spells either electrocute the poor animals, freeze them to death or burn them alive. He checks the map and locates another village nearby - if he strays a bit off the original course the next day, he should be able to buy some supplies there.

The crimson soon turns pitch black, only scarce stars decorating the otherwise cloudy sky. Even the Moon has trouble to shine through the obstacles, only illuminating the edges of one particularly huge cloud. The fire crackles peacefully, the cicadas sing in the night. A lone wolf howls in the distance, calling its brethren.

Mark gets up, fixing the robe around himself and putting up the cowl as the wind sends chills down his body. It's a bit of a ritual at this point - a walk at night just before he falls asleep. Breathing in the cool air helps him clear his mind when he takes the time to lose himself in thoughts. He's perfectly aware that someone could find his tiny camp, so he casts a minor spell that will fend off any possible intruders. Mother Nature smiles upon him and vines hide beneath the ground, ready to attack unwelcome guests.

The mage climbs the hill, looking at the lone tree growing on top of it. The maple's leaves rustle whenever the midnight breeze blows through them, and the branches gently sway, unbothered by anything else. Mark closes his eyes, feeling the soft grass under his feet. He's taken his shoes off and left them by the fire. A quiet exhale is the only sound he makes to tell the world how relaxing it feels. He focuses on the other senses, his sight not being able to tell him much anyway in the darkness. And so he enjoys the silence; a perfect harmony of the night, the sound of his robe swishing and his staff bouncing off his back with each step only blending into the background music.

After a few minutes of climbing his senses tell Mark that he's arrived at the top. He straightens his back and stretches his arms, a tired yawn escaping his lips. His mind is already becoming dulled with sleep, so he opens his eyes to look at the sky once more. The Dragon constellation is barely visible, though the star of its eye shines strongly, guiding anyone who travels East. The raven-haired man thinks about resting under the tree for a while. He slowly turns around and when his eyes land on the trunk of the maple, a voice in the darkness startles him.

"Hello there," it's quiet and heavy, the pitch too high for a human. "Wasn't expecting visitors…"

Mark lets out an ungraceful yelp of surprise and stumbles backwards, hardly regaining balance, so he lands on the ground. "W-who?..." He asks, trying to focus his eyes. He's able to make out a figure sitting underneath the shade of the tree, and an unpleasant smell hits his nostrils. It's sweet and metallic, and the mage soon recognises it as blood.

"Don't mind me," the stranger continues meekly. "I simply came here to rest. Possibly forever…" They chuckle darkly.

The mage clenches one hand tightly into a fist and focuses until the light starts seeping through his fingers. Once he releases the newly formed wisp from his hold, it floats near his head and illuminates the area. As the light chases away the darkness, Mark gasps at the new sight.

A man clad in light armor is sitting under the tree, his legs stretched out as far as they can. Near him lies a discarded helmet, stained red. Next to it, a broadsword stuck in the ground. The stranger is covering his stomach with one arm, although it does next to nothing - blood is seeping through, painting the grey armor rusty crimson. As he coughs, more of the red liquid runs down his chin. He wipes some of it with his other hand that falls limply by his side the next moment. His hair is short, brown messy locks sticking out in every way - possibly from wearing a headpiece for a long time. There are traces of stubble on his face as well. The raven-haired man wonders how he could've missed the knight but once his eyes settle on the stranger's, he realises he's not dealing with a human. The light from the wisp leaves a vivid shine in the black orbs that stare back at Mark.

"So, a mage?" The man doesn't seem to be phased by Mark's aghast expression. "You can sit down if you want. I wouldn't mind such pretty company in my last moments…"

The raven-haired man bites down on his bottom lip. All the healing spells he's learned run through his mind and he thinks of the best one to use right now. He can't let the knight die without at least trying to help him. Even though the eyes are unsettling and Mark could be making a mistake, he shakes the doubts off and reaches for his staff. He twirls the long piece of wood carved from an enchanted oak, finished with a crystal orb glistening with all the colours of the rainbow. The tip of the staff glows green as the spell is cast and a circle full of ornaments on the inside appears under the stranger.

"I think you misunderstood me there…" The brown-haired man grunts and tries sitting up but his face twists in pain and he slumps back down. Mark clicks his tongue at the dull thud of the man's back hitting the tree.

"Stay still, it will take a while for the wounds to close," he mutters.

"I didn't ask to be saved."

"You didn't have to," the raven-haired man replies. He's staring at the breastplate, trying to remember where he's seen the faint crest carved out in the steel. It looks familiar, somehow. After a while, he shifts his gaze towards the sword. Its hilt is wrapped in fine leather, beige stripes forming a perfect spiral. The head has a jade orb put into it, surrounded by four silver claws. Once Mark looks back at the armor, he realises the blood is covering a green eye symbol.

"Wait, you… You're one of the McLoughlins…!" He speaks out his thoughts. The family of nobles rarely leaves the capital, so to see one of the sons bleed out to death in the middle of nowhere is more than just a shock. "Why…?"

"Hush, names mean nothing in the face of death…" The knight casts his eyes to the ground, his head hanging down in resignation. "It doesn't matter anymore."

Mark looks intently at the man, his staff still hovering over the body. He tries to remember the names and judging by the other's face, he guesses his age.

"You're the youngest son, aren't you? Sean, Sean McLoughlin. What happened? Why are you here?"

The brown-haired man attempts at laughing again, though he ends up coughing up more blood. The mage winces, thinking how much of the crimson liquid is stuck in the other's lungs.

"I am not the man whose name you speak. Maybe this body once belonged to someone named Sean, but he's made a mistake… And he could no longer call himself a McLoughlin."

"That doesn't make sense." Mark shakes his head and steps closer, kneeling down to get a better look at the knight's face. "If your father stripped you of the name, the entire nation would surely hear of it!"

"Look me in the eyes," the brown-haired man finally raises his gaze and the mage once again stares at the black orbs. "Tell me, mage. What do you see?"

"… A demon." Mark exhales slowly. He knows exactly what the pitch black eyes are a sign of. "You've made a deal with a demon."

"Although it's hard sometimes, I don't want to regret it." The knight's chest rumbles with a chuckle. "It was my own choice to leave the family. If… If they found out about the pact, I'd be dead by now. Well, I am almost dead, anyway."

"I'm pretty sure there's more life in you than death at this point." The mage hums. The light from the staff gets dimmer with each second, indicating that the spell's effect is about to finish. And soon enough, the darkness begins to fade away from the knight's eyes, like a taint, revealing beautiful azure eyes. Upon closer inspection, however, Mark notices that one of them has a green iris. "You should be fine now."

The brown-haired man slowly shakes his head and lifts his arm from the previously bleeding stomach. The armor reeks of blood, but there are no more wounds it could seep out of. He tries sitting up again and even though everything aches, he manages to do so.

"And so you've saved my life, mage."

"I sure did." Mark smiles, putting his staff away on his back.

"And I don't even know your name."

"You can call me Mark." The raven-haired man stands up.

The knight reaches for his sword and uses it to support himself as he gets up to his feet. He pulls it out of the ground with some effort, just to jab it right back in between him and the mage. Mark steps away, a bit startled by the action. Before he can ask, however, the brown-haired man falls down on one knee, both hands gripping the handle of his weapon tightly.

"The demon within me doesn't wish for me to use my name either, so we've both settled on a new one. And so, I, Anti, a knight stripped off my crest, pledge loyalty to you, mage Mark. I will protect you with all my strength until the very last breath."

The raven-haired man's eyes go as wide as they can and he loses his voice for a good few seconds. "Wa-wait! No, no, no… You can't just…!"

"I was on the brink of death, and you've brought me back. I owe you my life." Anti looks up and his dichromatic eyes shine with determination, any traces of the previous smile gone, replaced with seriousness. "I have no place to go. I've spent enough time roaming around these lands, doing nothing."

"You don't even know what I do for the living!" Mark waves his hands frenetically, baffled by the entire situation. A member of a noble family, as well as half-demon, giving a pledge to a mage is unheard of. Any of these two statuses is enough to demand a servant who can wield magic for themselves. Serving a mage is humiliating even for a knight.

"You couldn't leave a wounded man alone. That's all I need to know."

"Please, just… Get up," the raven-haired man mumbles, turning his head away. His cheeks are tinted with pink enough already. When he hears the rustling of the armor he dares to look back. "How am I supposed to let you come with me if you're wearing your family's crest on your chest? As soon as we step into any city you'll be recognised immediately."

"Then I'd have just two requests for you." Anti bows his head.

Mark wonders if there's any way to make the pledge irrelevant. His memory supplies him only with tragic stories of sacrifices and betrayals, all ending up in death. He curses under breath, knowing that he's unable to kill anyone, let alone a person he's just saved.

"Go on, I'm listening…" He murmurs.

"If you could, I'd ask for a new breastplate. I can give you the coin, even. I admit I've had to avoid people until now…" The brown-haired man rests his hand on the head of his sword.

"I have enough money for that," the mage says, although he has to admit he hasn't been keeping up with the prices of the weaponry and armory lately. "What is your second request?"

"Let me travel with you."

Mark hisses quietly. He should've seen it coming. "I don't take companions for my journeys."

"I will keep you safe from all harm. I can hunt for you, carry any baggage. I can take on night patrols and make sure you sleep well…"

The raven-haired man puts up a hand before the list can go on for too long. "Alright, alright. I… I get it. You can… come with me. I have a camp at the base of this hill."

"I'd be delighted to." Anti smiles and pulls his sword out of the ground, soon to follow after Mark.

"Before we get there, I want to know something," the mage turns his head around as he walks.

"Anything for you, Mark."

The raven-haired man sighs heavily, seeing that sickly sweet smile on the other's face. Where has all the seriousness gone to?

"First, tell me about that demon…"

He'll just have to get used to a lot of things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (some parts of the world are inspired by the Dragon Age verse, but I'll try to describe the spells and such as best as I can so you don't need to know the franchise)  
> There will be a second chapter exploring that "angst" tag :)))


	2. Some people pray to their God for some magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might want to take a second look at the tags, they got updated... :)))

Once they're back at the camp, Anti tells Mark stories about his life. About how he envied his siblings; his sisters, for their mother's attention, and his brothers, for their chivalry and strength. The knight speaks of his past self, of the Sean McLoughlin that could barely lift a two-handed war axe, didn't have enough stamina to keep up a fight and cried from frustration at nights. The boy sought ways to improve himself when training failed, he couldn't stand the feeling of weakness.

And so one day he stumbled upon a stranger that promised a solution for all his problems. The mysterious figure handed him a worn-out tome with numerous carvings on the thick leather cover. A powerful ritual had been written down on the pages of the book - a way to get any kind of wish fulfilled with the help of unearthly spirits. Sean wished for nothing more than to become even with his siblings in importance, and so he summoned a demon that promised anything the boy would want. But as soon as the young McLoughlin agreed, the spirit entered his body and although it didn't take the control away from him, it fused with Sean's soul, connected their minds and made them inseparable. The demon's thoughts became the boy's, its desires twisting and bending his will the way it wanted.

The boy left his family's mansion not long after, afraid not only for his fate but his siblings as well. A rumour of a noble being possessed could do irreparable damages to their reputation. And so Sean abandoned his name, letting the nameless demon within him choose a new one.

Mark listens to the tale with a thoughtful expression. Anti looks like a formidable warrior, and when the knight speaks of the age he's left the McLoughlins, the mage figures out he's got a few years of experience already, as well. When asked about the fatal wounds the raven-haired man's healed on the hill, however, Anti tries to avoid answering. He mutters about foolish mistakes of taking on an entire pack of wolves pestering shepherds and their flocks of sheep. The next day the mage notices ravens feasting upon canine carcasses on the other side of the hill once they both embark on the rest of the journey.

Anti proves himself to be as useful as he's promised, keeping an eye on the surroundings, hunting down a few rabbits for them to cook in the fire later. Mark finds his knife-throwing skills to be inhumane; even the most skilled warriors aren't able to beat the critters' reflexes. The brown-haired man only flashes him one of his wide grins when inquired about it, explaining it's one of many gifts the demon has bestowed upon him.

The mage finds the company of the knight bearable, if not pleasant. He's never expected to get used to someone constantly talking to him, asking about his life, his work, his interests. And yet he feels surprisingly happy when he can answer Anti's questions. Mark has never had a chance to properly talk about his story, how he was taken away from his parents at a young age. Everyone in the land knows how eager the circle of mages is to accept new recruits into the Academy, be it willingly or by force. The knight listens to him, offers him compassion and understanding. And Mark accepts it all, as it makes his heart ache.

The first few jobs the raven-haired man takes after meeting Anti are focused on fending off various creatures haunting the lands, destroying the crops or simply being mischevious spirits harassing the peasants. The knight gladly helps each time, his blade alone able to scare off the minor beasts. The half-demon fights the monsters no matter their size and Mark supports him with additional fire from the distance. Anti's war cry never fails to send shivers down the mage's spine and there are times when he wonders if that's not the demon's ability to intimidate his enemies as well.

After each battle, the raven-haired man heals any wounds Anti might've suffered, and every single time the knight looks at him with soft hooded eyes. He smiles at Mark in a gentle way, and never fails to thanks. Something in the mage's chest stirs when the azure and emerald eyes meet his own amber ones. And yet he can only shake his head to get rid of any unnecessary feelings that may awaken in his heart.

Anti does nothing to ease the raven-haired man's problems. He's full of smiles, silly and inappropriate jokes and general lightheartedness.  It's only a matter of time before needless compliments start flying out of his mouth.

"You know, I love how the magic reflects in your pretty eyes. They shine with such life with each spell you cast," or, "I don't think I've ever seen a mage I could call 'beautiful' and yet it seems the words want to leave my mind without my permission." The knight says it like it's nothing, staring Mark right into the eyes, not a trace of doubt or lie in his expression.

The breaking point for the raven-haired man's mental defenses around his frail heart is Anti picking flowers for him. The half-demon plucks any weed that's good enough for his simple bouquets, anything that grows by the road just to arrange it into a decent composition that is soon given to Mark. "Pretty flowers for my pretty mage," he says each time, grinning with childish joy.

Mark accepts them each time with a lenient smile, shaking his head. "You're impossible," is his only answer. He thinks about throwing them away, the weed is nothing but a waste of space, and yet every single dandelion, wild rose or daisy find their way into the mage's spellbook he studies from time to time. Now there aren't two pages that wouldn't have at least one flower between them in the tome and the raven-haired man doesn't read it as much.

His heart soars whenever Anti gives him so much attention. He doesn't even realise when the knight tells him he loves his mage for the first time. Over the time the brown-haired man just starts… saying that. And Mark nods and smiles every time, his reply getting stuck in his throat. Anti doesn't seem to mind, somehow. He's happy with the other's approval, grateful for not throwing his feelings away.

Even in danger, the knight never stops with this foolishness. When Mark promises to get rid of a drake pestering the lands between two villages, Anti says he's ready to slay an adult-sized dragon. Nay, even if it was one of the Old Gods, he wouldn't hesitate if it was for the mage. When Mark tells Anti he doesn't have to patrol each night and should take a rest, the half-demon is ready to fight off bears in nothing but his underwear just to ensure the raven-haired man's safety in his sleep.

And so, the mage is content with his life with the companion. He's happy in a way he's never expected he'd be. There's something screaming in his soul every time Anti repeats his confession, yet he drowns it out. As if afraid that saying those words back would ruin their friendship, burst the thin bubble around Mark's heart. He's fine with the ache, for now.

But that ache is soon amplified to the levels the raven-haired man has never experienced. To the point when it's unbearable. When his inner screams rip from his throat and he cries his lungs out.

They're found out. One day, when they walk into the city that's located just a few miles away from the capital, a guardsman recognises Anti. The brown-haired man tries brushing it off as a misunderstanding but the other insists.

"The McLoughlin family has been looking for the youngest of their sons for years now. And you seem to be wielding one of the nobles' swords."

Anti covers his emerald eye and turns his gaze away, hissing through his teeth as the guard's stare pierces through him. Mark steps in, claiming his knight has absolutely no connection with the family in question. The guard narrows his eyes at the mage's words. The raven-haired man hasn't realised just what exactly left his lips and he tries to hide in shame, pulling his cowl over his head. Two nights later, as soon as they set up a camp, they're surrounded.

The same guard that has questioned them just a few days earlier steps forward, the fire of the torch he holds casting ominous shadows over his stern expression.

"There seem to be quite a number of rumours going around about you two do-gooders. And you've been rather hesitant and evasive when I spoke with you earlier. State your names and professions, right now!"

Mark chews on his bottom lip as he notices the uneasiness on his companion's face. He does his best in being the mediator in the exchange of words.

"I am Mark, a graduate of the Academy of Mages. I am no apostate, if you want to accuse me of practising magic by myself," the raven-haired man keeps his voice steady, his gaze unwavering.

"What of the knight? Why are you hiding your eye?" The guard-commander shakes his hand, an accusatory finger points right at the man beside the mage. Mark swallows thickly, the nervousness setting in the pit of his stomach.

"He's been feeling… unwell, for the past week," the mage hates lying and something twists up his intestines as he speaks. He doesn't understand the reason behind Anti's strange behaviour lately but it hasn't crossed his mind to question it.

"I am not talking to you!" The guardsman growls lowly and approaches the brown-haired man, shoving Mark out of the way. "You! What is your name?!" He bares his teeth and grabs the knight's wrist to pull his hand away from his face.

Anti makes a sound of protest but before he can stop the other, his multicolored eyes are revealed to everyone. Even in the faint lighting the torches provide, all the people gathered around can see it. The black taint, like a blight, swirling in the sclera, painting it dark. The green ring shines unnaturally, a faint glow explaining everything the guards need to know.

"You foul creature!" The man holding the half-demon's arm tightens his hold in rage. "You dare to possess a noble and meddle with simple peasants' fates!"

Mark wants to step in, wants to stop the scene before it unwinds into something terrible. But another man clad in armor jumps forward and holds him back. So the raven-haired man can only shout.

"Leave him be! He's not evil!" He cries out, his heart already hammering in his chest.

"Shut your mouth, mage!" The guard-commander turns his head and his vicious glare grounds Mark in the place. "For aiding a hellspawn, you deserve nothing but death!"

The sentence has been declared. All the guards gathered around reach for their swords, the clinking of the steel a grave sound in the silence of the night. Their blades shine with determination and the song of death fills the air.

"Don't you dare touch him!" Anti shouts out and yanks his wrist from the other man's hold. The guard-commander takes a step back and unsheaths his weapon, the half-demon doing the same. The broadsword glistens dangerously before striking down, the blade meeting nothing but the ground. A dull thud rings through the air and the guard's eyes go wide.

"Kill these men!" He yells and Mark has just a second to ask for the Mother Nature's help. The ground beneath him rumbles and a few vines spring up from the soil, throwing back the guards holding him down. It's too late. The mage knows the bloodbath is inevitable at this point. Still, he wished for no deaths, so he thinks about the most harmless offensive spells he can use. The plants wrap their stalks around the attacking men's ankles and wrists to immobilise them, though it's just the two of them and they soon get out with the help of fellow guards.

Anti lets out a wild cry, his voice untamed, shaking the earth and the sky. It's the demon within him that demands sacrifices. The knight swings his weapon and the blade strikes the guard-commander's arm. It cuts through the light armor and skin, only stopping after meeting the bone. The other man screams and attacks in return, his own sword only grazing the brown-haired man's cheek.

As their battle unfolds, Mark attempts at getting away from the enemies. The enchanter's robes are hardly any protection against the steel and such close proximity only puts the raven-haired man in more danger should he cast a spell. He thinks of the powers of the primal elements he can borrow and settles on the help of the skies as he takes a hold of his staff. The orb surrounded by the wood shines and soon a lighting bursts out of it, striking one of the guards. In the place of one fallen one, however, three more jump forward, their swords ready to tear into Mark's flesh.

The mage is hit with a horrid realisation. His skills turn out to be almost useless in the situation, as he hardly has any experience with fighting humans. When facing werewolves or shades, Mark has never had to think about the intensity of his spells. Each and every single time the goal was the same - to kill. But now that he wants to hold back and only neutralise his enemies, he finds himself in a compromising spot. Although he continues to electrocute, freeze and burn the guards, it's only a matter of time before one of them falls over dead. 

Mark feels the tears of fear and regret sting in the corner of his eyes and the moment of hesitation is enough for one of the swords to strike down on his back. The blade slices through his robe and skin. The mage cries out in pain, stumbling forward. The attackers advance and he loses the focus, unable to use the magic with the same precision. He starts missing his targets, not putting enough power into each spell and in result none of the enemies even get stunned. The mage decides to switch his strategy and tries to heal some of his wounds while defending himself with the staff alone. It can't hold off the swords, though, and one of the strikes in the thigh makes Mark lose his balance. Blood runs down from numerous cuts and he turns weaker with each moment. The raven-haired man feels the tears now stream down his face. He whispers for mercy, yet his pleas fall on deaf ears.

Before the guard towering over him can deliver the final blow, however, an animalistic howl slices through the cacophony of clashing steel and hurried steps. One moment the sword is swung down, aimed right at Mark's head, the other the body falls over, headless. Behind it stands Anti; all covered in fresh blood, both his own and his enemies', his armor full of dents and cuts, and he pants furiously, holding his weapon in shaking hands.

The mage wants to say something, but he can only cough, the cuts on his body still bleeding and stinging. He wants to warn the knight, to make him turn his gaze away, but Anti doesn't understand. While the half-demon breaks another guard's skull with the hilt of his broadsword, one of the enemies sneaks up behind him and the next second Mark sees the blade sticking out of the knight's stomach. The guard breathes heavily, his grip tight on the sword. He's pierced through Anti's body, cutting through the spine and the brown-haired man can't move, eyes wide and mouth agape. Blood floods his lungs and the half-demon spits it out, some of it landing on the mage's robes.

The guard pulls his weapon out and Anti falls to his knees, yet doesn't drop his sword just yet. Mark screams something in fear and shock, he's not sure what himself. The external pain gets overridden by the burst of heartache that explodes within him. The world around him fades away and the mage stares at the knight, wishing to save him, save them both, but he knows he's still too weak. Anti's injuries are much more grave and if the raven-haired man doesn't cast his most powerful healing spell now, he won't be able to save the half-demon. Yet if Mark stops treating himself, they both might bleed out to death before they can reach the city and seek help. Not that they can even ask for aid there if the guards have come to kill them.

The mage cries and shouts, the faint green glyph under him flickering. It's so hard to focus, and he knows someone is about to put him out of his misery. And so he closes his eyes, ready for death to take him away.

"No."

He hears a voice that's too high-pitched, too scratchy, too wrong. It's too close to belong to one of the guards.

"I will not let you kill him."

Mark's eyes fly open and he sees a figure standing in front of him. He doesn't understand, how Anti can still stand, holding the sword so steadily. The answer lies in the brown-haired man's eyes. They're pitch black, like the day the mage met the knight. His face is twisted in a hellish scowl, and when one of the guards strikes his back, the demon looks impassive. It cares not for any physical pain and with one swing of the brown-haired man's arm it cuts off the attacker's hand.

The demon takes full control of Anti's body and its movements are fluid and perfect as it finishes each enemy left with just one attack. No matter how the guards try to respond, it keeps its focus until the last of them drops dead. The knight's blood paints the grass around them red, not leaving a single patch clear. When it's done ensuring Mark's safety, its eyes lose the shine from any fire left around them, the darkness now fading away into grey dullness. Anti's body hits the ground, the sound echoing in the night.

The mage stares at it, unable to move or say anything. It's too unreal, too brutal, too… hurtful. For a while he keeps sitting down, his lips trembling as he feels his wounds close. As soon as the glyph fades away, he whispers.

"… Anti? Anti, get up…"

Mark scrambles to his feet, half-running, half-crawling towards the body of the knight. Everything else is forgotten, his staff, the dead guards around him, even the torches lying around. The raven-haired man gently slides one hand under Anti's head and swallows thickly as he feels the sticky hair painted crimson. The half-demon's face is all red, numerous streams of blood and cuts look like angry marks on the pale skin.

"Anti, please… Wake up…"

The mage's voice gets teary and almost silent, the words lost in the tightening throat. A few tears fall down and they mix with the blood on Anti's face, now half-transparent pink streaks running down the cheeks. Mark keeps whispering, pleading, asking, begging. He wants nothing more than for the knight in his arms to move. He shifts and pulls the body towards himself, so the brown-haired man's head rests against his chest. The mage cradles him like a child, and an ugly sob rips out from him.

"Don't leave me, you can't, you can't…"

He refuses to believe in the reality around him. His knight, his Anti, dead in his arms. Mark screams as loud as he can, knowing that the world doesn't care about his pain. Maybe a wolf will reply in the distance, ignorant to the ache blossoming in his heart. Clouds cover the Moon and the last of the embers dancing on the grass die out, leaving the raven-haired man in the darkness.

"Don't you understand, I love you… I've always done…"

Mark lets his head fall in a similar way the limp body lies. The words spill from his mouth, and he mutters the desperate confessions. He can't stop himself, remembering each time Anti told him the same sentences while bending down one knee, holding the wilted flowers. But he can't make up for all the times he never replied. The words get lost in the night, in the uncaring darkness.

And so the raven-haired man continues to cry, clutching the dead body of his knight. Even if he says "I love you" for the millionth time, it's not going to bring Anti back. None of his spells can, and he's never felt this useless in his entire life. Years of praises and pats on the back give him nothing that can help. He's not a necromancer, and he's never expected his choice to study primal magic to hurt so much.

The entire night passes before Mark can even release his hold on the bloody corpse. His robe is all torn and painted crimson, his hair messy, his cheeks puffy and eyes long dry from the grief. But he doesn't care. He's too exhausted to think about anything, and the silent, selfish request of the Mother Nature is the last spell he can cast before passing out.

Young, bright green vines emerge from the soil and gently wrap around them like a blanket, giving the lost lovers a shield from the cruel world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :') I'm not even sorry


	3. Wherever I go, you're the ghost in the room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn't think I'd actually leave you guys hanging like that, did you?

"I… I love you. I truly do."

A lone man stands in the middle of the field, his cape fluttering wildly in the wind. It's not much of a protection along with the cowl on his head but he cares not for the cold. His arms wrapped tightly around his chest and his legs shake a bit from the gust that rhythmically rustles his robe.

"I love you so much…"

The sun slowly hides behind the horizon, the sunset sucking out the colour from the world. It's the sign that the colder days have come and the sky is painted steely blue, no trace of the expressive crimson in sight. The man's hair flies left and right, sometimes sticking to his face. He's not bothered by it, his empty eyes staring at one spot as his lips move with the same words.

"I love you and my heart aches…"

Although his eyes are red, his cheeks puffy and there are dark purple bags under his eyes, there are always more tears to spill. Every single evening the farmers from the nearby village see the man stand in the same spot. They don't dare to approach him, to ask what he's doing there. They can sense his grief, and leave him to his mourning.

"Why did you have to leave me…?"

And each evening, after the night falls, the man's knees go under him and he collapses, arms falling down uselessly to wrap around the bundle of vines that grow from the ground in that spot. They form a perfect frame around a body that's been there for days. A juniper-colored casket with the knight resting inside, the delicate stalks embrace his peaceful face with closed eyes, hair tangled up in the leaves. His arms are crossed on his chest and his fingers are entwined on top of the emerald stone of the sword on top of him. He looks like a true warrior, still clad in his armor, ready to rise up and fight for everything he loves.

The mage breaks down into a sobbing mess each time he visits the grave. He wails uselessly, knowing that his cries aren't going to bring his lover back. Yet he can't stop himself from holding the body in his arms as the sun disappears from the sky and the darkness kisses the lands. He mumbles the same words over and over again, to the point of insanity, hoping that one of the confessions that leave his lips will resurrect the knight.

He knows he could move on. That he should forget and leave, accept the mercy the city's guard has shown him. With the monster slain, he's free to go whenever he wants. But once his heart has felt the sweet taste of company, attention and love, he simply can't. Even if it means putting his life in danger again, he wishes for nothing more than for the half-demon to come back to him.

Mark doesn't need to say anything, for when he doesn't have the strength to keep his eyes open, the Mother Nature takes care of him. Some of the vines uncurl from the green form and drape themselves around his back to preserve whatever heat he's got left in his body. Once the exhaustion from the day catches up to the mage he passes out, something in him wishing to fall asleep once and for all together with the knight.

Days blend into weeks and yet the raven-haired man never fails to show up at the grave at sunset. No matter what weather, he doesn't falter; be it gusts that freeze him to the bones or rains that soak his clothes entirely. Mark refuses to leave the knight's body. Rumours spread about the sorrowful man and some farmers shake their heads while their wives feel sorry for him.

And so it's only a matter of time before someone tries to approach the mage. Mark doesn't hear the footsteps, pressing his tired face between the shoulder and the neck of the half-demon's body. He doesn't weep too loudly but he's stopped hearing anything besides his own lunatic whispers. The stranger stands next to him, observing the pitiful scene for some time. They shake their cloaked head and release a condescending chuckle. Although it still fails to get Mark's attention, they don't mind.

"Fate truly is a cruel lady, is she not?" They speak up in a deep and rumbly voice, albeit it sounds gentle.

The raven-haired man stops shaking, and instantly sits up, turning his shocked gaze towards the stranger. He can't see their face very well in the dark, his vision blurry from the tears anyway. The only thing he can notice is a pair of orange watchful eyes. They glisten with something dangerous.

"Have you come for me?" Mark furrows his brows, not liking that the stranger's presence has stirred the emotions in him even further. His heart aches enough as it is. "I am not afraid of dying."

The figure takes off the hood and the mage sees a well-defined face of a man. His hair is blacker than the darkness of the night, not even one strand reflecting the Moon's shine. The stranger's eyes seem to glow, the fiery color a stark contrast against the grey skin. His lips are slightly parted and he narrows his eyes before replying.

"Your death will not get you what you wish for." The man kneels down and rests a hand on the knight's forehead. "Get up and stop mourning, if you want him back."

The mage shakes his head and releases a huff. "It's too late. Nothing can help now, not even necromancy would be able to return Anti to me…"

The other sends him a glare and he shows his teeth in a scowl. "Only a fool would say so. I am not a creature of generosity, so I advise you to carefully reconsider your next words…"

Mark slowly backs away from the body, afraid of what the man is proposing. He doesn't want to leave his lover's body to the stranger's mercy but at this point, he is ready to risk it, if it can give him a small piece of hope.

The cloaked man soon stands up as well, a thoughtful expression on his face. His eyes are shut and he hums while the mage stares at him with big eyes. After a couple of minutes, the stranger looks back at Mark.

"I have but one condition if you want my help."

"Anything," the raven-haired man whispers, clasping his hands together to keep them from trembling. "I'll do anything if I can have him back."

"Then," the man extends his arm and draws a shape that Mark doesn't quite get with his index finger in the air, "I want… a clover in return."

"Wh… what?" The mage thinks he's misheard him, it can't be true. A simple weed flower as payment?

"A clover. Just one stalk will be enough." The stranger looks wistful, casting his eyes down. "Could you do that for me?"

"But it's… it's not equal. How can it be enough in exchange for Anti's life…?"

"It matters to you, does it not?" The orange-eyed man sighs. "Just as a similar soul mattered to me a long time ago… I can still sense the blood in those veins."

Mark nods, unsure what to say. He falls down on one knee and touches the grass, forming out the plea for the Mother Nature in his mind. She replies as generously as ever, and in mere seconds the mage feels the plants wriggle their way out from the soil. The clovers bloom in between his fingers, brushing his skin with their delicate leaves. He carefully moves his hands away and gets up. As he steps away, the other man bends down and picks up a few plants. He smiles when he holds them, looking at the weed in his hands with such fondness.

"You cannot even imagine what pleasure you've given to this man…" He pockets the clover after pressing a gentle kiss on it and clutching it to his chest. Afterwards, he looks at Mark with diligence, sending a shiver down the mage's spine. "Say, have we ever met…?"

"I don't think so, no," the raven-haired man shakes his head, gulping as he feels the other's stare on him.

The stranger hums. "You do remind me of someone, though. That's not important right now." He closes his eyes, facing the body. "It is time for me to fulfil my end of the promise."

"It won't be that easy…" Mark mouths but decides not to interrupt the other. He takes a few steps back and watches the scene unfold.

The black-haired man extends his arms over the knight, his face scrunching up. He grits his teeth and the mage feels the air begin to stir. Mark hasn't even noticed when the cold wind stopped blowing on his back but now it's back with so much more force. He grabs the hems of his robe to keep it from fluttering too loudly. The stranger seems unphased, although his own cloak flies in the gust, with broad chunks cut out to form a fringe it resembles a pair of enormous corvid wings. He only grits his teeth and the effects of any previous Mark's spells fade away, the vines hiding back beneath the ground, leaving Anti's body in the open.

After several moments a white spot appears on the grass just above the knight's head. It shakes for some time and decides what direction to take, as it draws a circle around the body. It burns a sigil into the ground, leaving a dead trail in its wake. The colors begin to fade away, any form of life gets sucked out from the area. Mark doesn't realise when his teeth start clattering and he doesn't know whether it's the cold or the worry overtaking his heart as he looks at what is going on. A few straight lines connect the outer circle with the body, soon to form spirals and minor rings. Various symbols appear on the ground, and the mage doesn't understand any of them. They don't look like any letters he's familiar with and yet he can't shake the feeling that the inscriptions must make sense.

A thunder makes him scream and he sees the glyph light up with a violent burst of orange. Mark shifts his gaze towards the stranger and sees that the man has opened his eyes. They glow in the darkness even brighter than before, making him look like a werewolf preying in the shadows. The mage has never felt such dangerous aura in his entire life. Not even the First Enchanter of the circle of mages possesses such power. Mark's entire body shakes in fear as he realises he's not dealing with just anybody. Whoever that stranger is, he knows more, much more than any common necromancer.

The orange-eyed man opens his mouth, and ancient words spill from his lips. Each syllable shakes the ground, the earth rumbles with the words. Somehow the world gets even darker, and Mark can't see anything past the fiery sigil, two glistening spots and the stretched out arm. His own eyes get teary, the gust drying them out. The mage can't even speak up, his words get lost in the wind and the air is so devoid of anything that it tightens his throat with each breath.

Everything blends into one and Mark can't be sure what exactly he hears, sees, or feels. There is the shaking ground, the thunderous voice, and bright orange in the otherwise colorless world. He feels so helpless against the powers surrounding him, that when he's on his knees, he doesn't even protest. His arms tremble and he can barely support himself just not to get blown away by the wind.

So when there's an outburst of green, he musters up whatever strength he has to keep watching the scene. Something akin to smoke emerges from where the body should be, and it swirls upwards in a spiral, unbothered by the storm around. It has a mind of its own, its movements so slow compared to everything else that Mark feels like it slows down the flow of time itself. After forming a spherical shape two limbs branch out from its sides, extending unnaturally long until the hit the ground. The endings spread out into slender claws, and the mage can only guess the upper part of the entity is supposed to be its head as a pair of black eyes opens there. It faces the orange-eyed stranger and a snout finishes its form, just to split into a grin that's too wide with crooked and sharp fangs.

Mark has no idea how, but he can hear the thing… breathe. A loud panting comes out of it and it drowns out any background noise. The raven-haired man hears it inside of his head, making his heart beat in the rhythm of its exhales. The smoky entity relaxes its jaw and a long tongue falls out of it before it speaks up. Although for the mage it's nothing more than ringing in his ears, something tells him that it speaks the same language the other man has used. It hurts him just to listen to it, piercing through every single thought he tries to form in his mind.

It gets too hard to follow the conversation from that moment. His head is spinning and the two powerful creatures argue about something while he can only stand back, just a pest observing something beyond his control. Tears overflow his eyes and they spill from them, though they don't even reach the ground with the wind blowing so hard. Mark didn't ask for any of this, he just wanted Anti back. The tiny spark of hope the stranger has earlier handed to him now begins to falter and his heart collapses with the ache.

Before he can give up, though, the orange-eyed man points at him with the whole arm. Without sparing him a glance, still maintaining the eye contact with the smoky entity, he simply moves his hand to make it avert its gaze. The spirit slowly turns its head and cocks it to the side as it looks at the miserable mage and Mark feels a strange tingling on the inside. Although his thoughts are scattered around and don't make sense, his mind recognises the familiarity of the eyes glaring at him. The untamed, wild, unwavering stare… It's the exact same blaze that has shone so brightly in Anti's emerald iris.

The entity's face almost splits in half as it grins too widely and Mark swears it blinks at him with one eye. One second he and it stare at each other, and the other it dives down, right into the knight's body. The smoke twirls as it gets absorbed into the chest, and it's so fast that for the mage it looks like a green lightning finding the shortest way to strike the earth. Everything goes white for him and he can only feel the ground meeting his cheek before he loses consciousness.

As Mark stirs awake, he lets out a pained grunt. It's still dark outside, yet not as dark as he got used to during the ritual. The ritual… The mage scrambles to his feet, remembering what has occurred. He half-sprints towards the body and scrapes his knees as he falls over just next to it. He isn't sure what to do, seeing the unmoving knight. Something in him wants to hold him again but that will feel like nothing's changed. His doubts are soon dispelled when the brown-haired man's chest jumps upwards and he coughs heavily. The breath he takes is a whistling wheeze, too loud and too scratchy but so… right. So relieving. 

Anti doesn't even open his eyes yet and Mark is already embracing him as tightly as he can, pressing his face against the knight's chest. The mage feels the heartbeat under the armor and the erratic breathing that tries to find its rhythm. Once the first sob leaves his mouth, the floodgates are open. He doesn't care how he sounds or looks like, bursting out with tears that for the very first time it what seems like eternity aren't caused by the sadness. He wails, immense joy filling his heart that's been in pain for so long.

The half-demon sits up and Mark hears a long sigh. When he doesn't let go, the mage feels a hand still wearing a gauntlet sneak into his hair to caress it slowly and delicately. It knows exactly how to stroke his raven locks, no matter how messy and tangled they are. And Mark can't be happier at this moment.

"I love you," he whispers.

And the response is exactly what he needs to hear.

"I love you too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :'D  
> Okay, first of all: it was Em's wonderful idea to end the story this way, she just couldn't stand Mark being forever heartbroken over Anti's death haha
> 
> I'm proud of this work! I put a bit more time into it while writing the descriptions and thinking of some better words and phrases. Although I'm aware that it's still not a perfect style, with each story I post I get the feeling that I'm getting closer and closer to what I want to achieve as a writer.
> 
> I'm thinking about adding a chapter to the Trashcan about some awkward first times from this au... what's your opinion?  
> ... and maybe someone can guess who the mysterious necromancer was... ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Leave kudos and a comment if you enjoyed reading, and come over to Tumblr to talk with me! I'm there on [**mantianti**](http://mantianti.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> The title comes from the song [**Wherever I Go** by OneRepublic](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OXWrjWDQh7Q)
> 
> [There is some smut for this AU now! Click here :>](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12305202/chapters/32192127)


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